


how do you like your blue-eyed boy, mister death?

by Ravenspear



Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, M/M, Personification of Death, who the hell is "grammar"?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-20
Updated: 2016-11-20
Packaged: 2018-09-01 01:44:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8602321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ravenspear/pseuds/Ravenspear
Summary: this is how it begins:there is a battlea trencha dying man whom some call the angel of Deathand a creature with an owl’s wings and an owl’s grasping claws, that actually is





	

this is how it begins:

there is a battle

a trench

a dying man whom some call the angel of Death

a creature with an owl’s wings and an owl’s grasping claws, that actually _is_

and in what is supposed to be his final moments, the man begs

staring up at the raptor-eyed horror come to take him away, he begs

fearful

desperate

agonized

not for his life, but for _atonement_

and the creature thinks…

the creature thinks it's never seen eyes as blue

and the creature…

the creature turns away

(there is, after all, no atonement to be found in Death

only in living)

 

* * *

 

there are rules, of course, to life and Death. scales to be balanced.

there’s a debt owed for the spared man’s soul, and the creature pays it with its owl’s wings and its owl’s claws and owl’s eyes.

it pays with everything that it is, and all that’s left afterwards is a simply a man, cold and alone in a world he’s never touched from this side before.

he still manages to find his way. he has been Death for a long time, and his hands still remember where soul is fastened into flesh.

he replaces his claws with steel, and he finds his work in the pleas and dollars of those who cannot kill for themselves rather than in constellations of stars and the weave of fate.

he wanders, and he kills, and he waits.

and sometimes, sometimes bloody feathers still fall out from underneath his shirts.

 

* * *

 

goodnight robicheaux, the man who should be dead, does not recognize his benefactor when they next meet in a texas saloon, the-man-who-wasn’t-always-a-man’s knuckles bloody and bodies littering the floor.

what he recognizes is loneliness.

what he recognizes is yearning.

and, well. he understands _that_ plenty by now, doesn’t he?

 

* * *

 

“i believe i never did catch your name, sir,” goodnight says later, as they’re riding through a twilit desert valley, leaving the town and its belligerent inhabitants behind.

the-man-who-was-not-always-a-man answers with the first thing that comes to mind. “billy.”

goodnight’s lip quirks, and an eyebrow is raised. “any last name to go with that, billy?”

billy scans their desolate surroundings for a few moments before turning back to goodnight. “rocks,” he replies, keeps his face straight.

the laugh that startles out of goodnight is worth the world, probably.

“alright, then,” goodnight says, smile still playing across his lips, laughter still glittering in his eyes, still as blue as billy remembers. “pleasure to make your acquaintance, mister billy rocks.”

 

* * *

 

billy has not known many sorts of pain in his existence.

at least, not any as acute, as visceral, as the one that he feels at the knowledge that the nightmares that leave goodnight - goody, now, since pretty much the first week - paralyzed with fear and visions of the past, are part of the gift he gave on the battlefield, all those years ago.

goody dreams of owls come to steal his soul away, of the punishment waiting for all the blood on his hands.

billy wants to tell him that punishment was never his intent, that all he wanted in that moment when he threw all he was away, was that goody have a second chance. that goody could find peace. (and maybe, just maybe, that billy could be there for it.)

but the words get caught somewhere between his heart and his tongue, so instead he holds goody - shaking and crying and eyes seeing only battlefields long left behind - to his chest and tells him softly: “they’re just dreams, goody. they’re just dreams.”

 

* * *

 

“you know,” goodnight starts, dragging the brush through billy’s hair, “we could start heading westwards.”

billy hums vaguely in response, leaning his head into goodnight’s hands. he’s soft like this, relaxed and peaceful, sitting on the floor between goodnight’s legs as he works knots and grit out of the long tresses.

this is well planned on goodnight’s part. he knows billy probably won’t like the conversation he’s trying to have, won’t appreciate what he’ll see as goodnight meddling.

but goodnight is fairly sure this is a thing they need to talk about.

because while billy has always had these _moods_ \- ones that leaves him staring off towards the horizon, body tensed like a bird about to take flight, eyes filled with something that looks a lot like homesickness - they’re becoming more frequent lately.

and while goodnight might rely on billy for much, he is not so cruel as to keep him from happiness, if it is available.

“i was thinking san fransisco, possibly,” he continues, fingers carding along billy’s scalp.

billy makes an unimpressed sound. “san fransisco is awful, why would you want to go there?”

goodnight swallows. “well, they do have plenty ships heading westwards,” he tries, as lightly as he can, continuing his ministrations on billy’s hair.

billy stills underneath his hands, then billy’s tilting his head back to look at him, dark eyes serious. “why would that be relevant, goody?”

goodnight sighs, cupping billy’s cheek in his hand, thumb stroking softly along the line of his chin. “you’ve a past, billy. no matter how much you don’t talk about it. and i know you miss it, whatever and wherever it is. i don’t want to be responsible for you missing out on whatever might be waiting for you out there.”

billy’s hand is rough and warm as it comes up to cover goodnight’s, guiding it downwards so he can press a kiss in the center of the palm. “goody… yes, i miss the life i had once. i miss… the purity of it. the ease. but even if i could go back there, i wouldn’t trade the life i have here. with you.”

“well, if you’re sure,” goodnight says, voice perhaps less steady than is entirely becoming.

“i am,” billy says, simply, honestly. “now my hair, please?”

“yessir,” goodnight says, mock saluting before going back to work.

(later, half asleep under goodnight’s hands, billy whispers “thank you, goody. for offering anyway.”

“anything for you, mon cher,” goodnight whispers back.)

 

* * *

 

they’re dying in this tower today.

billy has known this for days, has tasted it in the back of his throat; the bitter tang of severed threads, fated Death.

knew even when goody was running away, that he’d be back to spill his blood on sandbags and blackened wood, right here next to him.

fourteen years is what he traded his wings for.

it’s been more than enough for him to die happy.

he hopes it’s been enough for goody, too.

 

* * *

 

“i’ve loved you since they day we first met,” he tells goodnight, in between bullets, in between severed threads, bodies falling.

“you’re an incurable romantic, billy,” goodnight laughs.

 

* * *

 

dying holds no mystery, no fear, for billy rocks.

when the bullets tear through him, it’s almost comforting, like a homecoming.

what hurts is seeing the way goody’s body is shaken by the impacts, seeing him fall.

that hurts more than anything, more than ripping his wings off with his own talons ever did.

then…

then there is a rustle of feathers, and a shadow falling over him.

he can see now, how goody would have feared him; the owl’s eyes are deep and burning, its claws sharp and dreadful, and its wings an endless darkness waiting to swallow him.

billy rocks smiles up at his sister. “i only regret we didn’t have longer.”

the owl stares at him for an eternity.

and then…

then the owl turns away.

 

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this accidentally while not entirely conscious. might rewrite it sometime, but today is not that day, so i'm posting it as is.
> 
> i apologize for nothing.


End file.
